Hold My Hand

by M. J. Ford

  ‘We talked about our lives, I s’pose. Tim says it can help.’

  God bless Tim!

  ‘And does it?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘What did Alan say about his life?’

  ‘He didn’t say much at all, the first few times. He was nervous. Thought people would find out. He had to leave the last place they put him. Got smashed up by some kids.’

  ‘I heard about that.’

  ‘I never knew what he’d done. I don’t care really. He was a good bloke. Funny.’

  ‘So when did you last see him?’

  ‘A week ago.’ The cigarette was almost done. Burgess seemed to be relaxing, leaning back on the wall. ‘He was different.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘I dunno. Sort of sad. I thought maybe he’d had some bad news. Y’know – like someone close had died. He said he couldn’t keep coming to the group. Said he was in trouble.’

  ‘Did Ingliss know this?’

  ‘No – it was after he’d left. He’d have tried to talk to Al, and Al wasn’t much of a talker. Not with a chaplain anyway.’

  ‘Did he give any indication to you what the trouble was?’

  ‘No,’ said Burgess, ‘but—’

  The large foreman emerged from the door. ‘All right, break’s over, Lee. You know the rules.’

  ‘Just give us another minute,’ said Jo.

  ‘This is a business,’ said the boss. ‘One minute, no more.’

  He dipped inside again.

  ‘You were saying – about the trouble …’

  ‘I’m guessing, okay, but I reckon someone had found out about him.’

  ‘You think he was being blackmailed?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Ingliss jumped into her head, but she dismissed it almost as quickly. The prison chaplain turned blackmailer didn’t pass muster.

  ‘I need the names of the other people at the group,’ she said.

  The look he gave her was so utterly devoid of emotion she found it unnerving.‘I’m no grass.’

  ‘Just names, Lee. No one will know they’re from you.’

  But she knew she’d lost him as he began to walk away. At the door he paused.

  ‘Look, do what you like. But I need this job. I’ve got a kid on the way.’

  God help them, thought Jo, as he disappeared back inside.

  As Jo drove away, with the dawn light breaking across the warehouses, she thought about where to start with Stratton when she saw him next. She’d be able to bring Burgess in to give an official statement, if he wanted. But it was still, infuriatingly, just conjecture.

  They had nothing else. Ben was right that Niall’s credibility was next to nought, and his nightmare recollection was more like a horror story than anything else. The print lab might come up with a match still, from down under the Nissen Hut.

  In the meantime, she had a funeral to attend.

  Chapter 20

  TUESDAY

  Back at her brother’s, Jo packed her things quickly, and was checking her reflection in the mirror when Paul passed the guest room on the landing. He knocked on the already open door.

  ‘Hey,’ she said.

  ‘Hi, sis,’ he said. ‘I wanted to say sorry – about last night. It’s really none of our business about you and Ben. We’re just sorry it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Don’t sweat about it,’ she said. ‘It happened months ago, and I should have told you then.’

  Her brother spotted the bag. ‘You’re not leaving, are you?’

  ‘Case is closed,’ said Jo. ‘I’m due a few days’ leave. Out of your hair and all.’

  Paul came into the room. ‘Where are you staying now then?’

  ‘I’ve got my own place in Bath. Nothing special.’

  To put it mildly.

  ‘Oh, right.’ He lingered. ‘It’s just, well … actually, I’ve got a bit of a favour to ask. Our babysitter’s let us down. We’re due at the firm’s annual summer party tonight.’

  ‘No problem,’ she said, straight away. She’d hardly been relishing returning to the flat, and even if it only masked the disappointment of the case for a while, the distraction of children’s TV and bedtime stories was a welcome one.

  ‘You sure? We’d ask Em, but she’s got some party that apparently she can’t miss.’

  ‘It’d be a pleasure. What time do you need me?’

  ‘Say seven thirty?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘You’re a lifesaver,’ said Paul.

  * * *

  St Edward’s was a dark, gothic-looking church crowded in by houses. Jo walked up the front path just before ten a.m., between leaning gravestones clustered among overgrown grass. She’d worn, for lack of other options, her work attire, and as she approached the front porch, she felt distinctly underdressed.

  Mr Jones was waiting by the open doors, wearing a blazer and suit trousers, with a stack of papers in his hand. His neck swelled across the top of his collar, and combined with the broken veins across his nose and cheeks, he looked distinctly uncomfortable. Jo wondered if this whole thing had been his wife’s idea. When he saw her, she caught a slight defensive flinch of surprise before he nodded.

  ‘Detective,’ he said. ‘Good of you to come.’

  ‘I wanted to pay my respects,’ she said. ‘How is Mrs Jones doing?’

  He shrugged. ‘To be honest, she’s enjoyed having something to do. Please, do go inside. We’ll be starting soon. And have one of these.’

  He handed her the order of service, on a folded piece of thick card. The front cover read ‘In Memoriam: Dylan Edward Jones’, with his birthday and the day he went missing.

  They have to tell themselves that, I suppose.

  Jo entered, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the church’s interior. The musty smell of the wooden pews and ancient prayer books took her back at once. Her mother had been an ardent worshipper, dragging Jo along until the age of twelve or thirteen, and Jo could almost hear the rap of Mrs Masters’ Sunday-best heels on the stone flags now.

  The place was well attended with some twenty or thirty guests, most of a similar age to the Joneses. Jo ran her eyes over the assortment of thinning hair, walking sticks, costume jewellery and dark clothing. There were one or two in their late thirties as well, and she wondered if they were perhaps school friends of Dylan. Given his age when he went missing, they surely couldn’t remember the disappearance as anything other than a distant novelty.

  Most people were seated already, but Mrs Jones was holding court near the front of the church with a couple. As her husband had said, she looked cheerful, and her outfit was incongruously bright considering the sombre occasion, with a fuchsia skirt and matching jacket, and a stylish hat. And why not? She was probably making up for all the ceremonies she’d never had the opportunity to attend – the graduation, the wedding, maybe the christenings of grandchildren too.

  And there was Ferman, seated almost out of sight behind a pillar, alone at the end of a pew with his head bowed. Jo walked down the aisle, then filed in along his row. He didn’t seem to notice her until she had taken the seat beside him.

  ‘You came,’ he said, unclasping his hands from his lap and gripping the front of the pew in front.

  ‘I said I would,’ she replied. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Same old,’ he replied. ‘You look tired.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll be heading back to Bath soon.’

  He nodded sagely, as though understanding on some deeper level that their strange, second encounter had been as inconsequential as the first thirty years before, and that the vagaries of her case, the disappearance and rescue of Niall, and the violent death of Trent were ultimately meaningless. His gaze travelled to the front of the church, and Jo’s eyes followed to the blown-up picture of Dylan on the trestle at the front, the black and white smiling face that would forever memorialise him. There were other, smaller images as well, but from the back of the church, J
o couldn’t make them out.

  The church stilled and quietened as the last of the guests took their seats and a cassocked priest emerged. He was at least a septuagenarian himself, so perhaps he too remembered Dylan. He spoke softly to Mrs Jones for a few seconds, then took her hands in his. She smiled before sitting beside her husband.

  Jo had always found faith mystifying and childishly benign, but in odd moments she’d seen first-hand the solace it could offer, and in those fleeting glimpses, a sort of envy stirred in her gut. When her dad had gone, so suddenly, Paul said their mother had stepped up her attendance at their local church, but Jo had sensed it was for appearances rather than genuine comfort.

  The ceremony began with words from the priest, about a life being cut short, about the shock and fear, about injustice and questioning God. Jo respected the crafty circumlocutions that the church could offer – almost lawyerly in their approach – and the way of using the liturgy to protect the congregation from the grim reality of his death, to deter the inevitable speculation of what had happened to Dylan between that summer’s day at the circus and whenever he had met his end shortly afterwards. No single mention was made of the kidnap, no reference even to an unnatural death. Jo found herself thinking of Ingliss – he would have no doubt approved of the approach.

  There was a reading by a family friend, of the Liverpool FC anthem ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’, and Jo found herself welling up at the words, because in that moment she was back at the circus admiring Dylan’s football shirt. Afterwards, a sacred hymn was sung, and Ferman mumbled along, and then another guest read a passage from John, about Lazarus rising from the dead.

  As the tone became more spiritual, her mind wandered back to Niall, speculating why the print lab was taking so long. She followed the service absently, until she saw Ferman turn the cover of the order of service. On the back there was a black and white image of Dylan, sitting at a piano. The text below the picture read ‘Final prayers’, with a further line, ‘The church pianist will play the congregation out to Chopin’s Prelude in E-Minor’.

  Jo turned over her own order of service, fingers tingling oddly. Dylan looked tiny against the full-size keyboard, but Jo could see at once from his poise that this was no playful shot. His back was straight, the stool raised high, and his fingers were balanced on the keys.

  Ferman muttered ‘Amen’, as the prayer finished. Then the familiar notes of the Prelude began to play. The guests shuffled in their seats, some rising. Jo leant across to Ferman.

  ‘Did you know Dylan played the piano?’ she asked.

  Ferman shrugged. ‘I think so, yes. No, definitely. He was quite the prodigy apparently. Everything all right?’

  The aisle was filling up as people made their way towards the doors. Dylan’s parents were at the head of the group.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I just need to have a chat with Mr and Mrs Jones.’

  They joined the back of the procession heading for the exit. It’s probably nothing. But still, a presence loomed on the edge of her consciousness. A broad back, a dark face cast in shadow. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but …

  The receiving line moved slowly, each guest clasping hands with Dylan’s parents, or offering hugs along with their words of commiserations. Jo found herself tapping her foot impatiently.

  ‘You sure you’re okay?’ asked Ferman, beside her.

  ‘Did Dylan have a teacher? A piano teacher?’

  Ferman frowned. ‘Probably.’

  ‘You didn’t follow it up at the time?’

  ‘Why should we?’

  They reached the front of the line. Mr Jones looked wrung-out, but his wife appeared much more content.

  ‘I hadn’t realised,’ she said, ‘that it was you, by the way.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Jo.

  ‘That day,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘You were the little girl, weren’t you? The one who saw it happen. I didn’t know until Detective Ferman told me this morning. Isn’t that strange?’

  There was no accusation in the tone, just a kind of beatific calm, as if Jo’s presence was cosmically ordained, and somehow fitting, not just a walk-on part in someone else’s tragedy.

  ‘Mrs Jones, I’m sorry to bother you with a question, today of all days.’ She felt Ferman bristle beside her. It was inappropriate to ask, but she could clear it up in a second. ‘I just wanted to follow up on something.’

  Mrs Jones looked perplexed. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Dylan played the piano …’

  ‘Yes. He was ever so talented, you know, considering his age. He said he wanted to be a footballer, but his piano teacher said he had potential to make a name for himself.’

  Jo felt a little light-headed. ‘His teacher?’

  ‘Lovely woman over in Horton. I did send her an invite, but perhaps she’s no longer—’

  ‘Her name wasn’t Sally Carruthers by any chance?’

  ‘That’s right!’ said Mrs Jones. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I grew up nearby. She tutored me too.’

  ‘Goodness! Another coincidence. Then again, can’t be that many piano teachers in North Oxford.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Jo.

  ‘Dylan just adored her,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Of course, that may have had something to do with the scones she used to bake.’ She chuckled.

  ‘I remember them too!’ said Jo, feigning cheer. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. And thanks again for inviting me today – it really was a beautiful ceremony.’

  After saying farewell, Jo quickened her steps towards her car. She’d almost completely forgotten about Ferman until she heard his heavy breathing at her back.

  ‘Running off?’ he said.

  She fished for her keys. ‘Sally Carruthers – she had a husband. He’s dead now.’

  ‘Priors?’ Ferman sounded suddenly more alert.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So what makes you think he was involved?’

  ‘Sally taught me from about six years old through to fourteen.’

  ‘You must have been good,’ said Ferman. ‘I’m not following you though.’

  ‘She was teaching me in ’87,’ said Jo. ‘Exactly the time Dylan went missing. She never mentioned him. Not once. Isn’t that odd?’

  He frowned. ‘You were young.’

  ‘I’ve seen her a couple of times since I’ve been here too. She didn’t bring it up.’

  ‘Maybe she hasn’t seen it in the news.’ Ferman spoke perfectly reasonably, but it didn’t dispel Jo’s unease.

  ‘I’ll ask Andy Carrick to pull the file – see if he was ever questioned.’ She opened the car door. ‘Want to tag along?’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To scratch an itch.’

  As Jo drove, she called Carrick on the hands-free and asked him to look into the persons of interest in the Dylan Jones investigation, specifically a Mr Carruthers of Cherry Tree Cottage in Horton. She couldn’t remember the Christian name of Sally’s husband, and wondered if she’d ever known it. At a set of traffic lights, she closed her eyes for a moment, trying to picture the man who’d walked Dylan away from the circus. She had no idea if the image in her head was accurate after all this time, but hadn’t he been the same build as Sally’s husband?

  Her heart was beating fast as she played back the conversations she’d had with her former teacher over the last few days. Dylan had been all over the news, but Ferman might be right. Perhaps Sally didn’t pay much attention. They certainly hadn’t spoken about it. Jo never did like to discuss active cases. She thrust deeper into her memories, to the weekly lessons as a child. No one had ever said a thing, she was sure of it. Yet Dylan Jones had been learning on the same stool, on the same instrument, a few hundred yards from her house.

  They were on the A34 heading for Horton when Carrick called back.

  ‘Turns out Carruthers, Stephen, was a person of interest,’ he said, ‘but way down the list. Had some minors for affray, D & D. Uniforms went out and spoke
to the wife, but he wasn’t home. I guess once Clement Matthews was in custody, it wasn’t followed up.’

  ‘Well, better late than never,’ said Jo.

  ‘He’s still around?’

  ‘Died a couple of years ago apparently, but Sally Carruthers is in the same house. We’re almost there now.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I’m with Harry Ferman,’ said Jo.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Ferman tentatively, leaning towards the steering wheel.

  ‘Might be worth a look, I suppose,’ said Carrick. ‘Keep me in the loop.’

  He hung up, and Jo took the exit off towards Horton.

  ‘I came out this way to interview you as a girl,’ said Ferman. ‘Big house, I recall?’

  ‘My brother’s family live there now,’ said Jo.

  ‘Parents passed away?’ asked Ferman.

  ‘Pretty much,’ Jo replied. ‘Mum’s got quite advanced Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I remember her being quite … what’s the word?’

  ‘Intimidating? Formidable?’

  ‘The opposite, actually,’ said Ferman. ‘She was very upset. I got the impression she didn’t want us there, asking you questions.’

  ‘She liked routine,’ said Jo. ‘Things she could control.’

  ‘I think perhaps she was angry with herself,’ said Ferman. ‘For letting you go too that day.’

  ‘No offence, but that doesn’t sound like Mum. She wasn’t big on introspection.’

  Ferman smiled. ‘And no offence to you, but if that were me, I’d be thinking it could have been my daughter who went missing instead of Dylan. When you’re a parent, it tends to change your perspective on things.’

  Jo focused on the road, slightly cross that he was insinuating he knew her own mother better than she did based on a short meeting.

  ‘Well, she certainly kept a close eye on me after that.’

  They arrived at Cherry Tree Cottage and parked outside. As soon as she cracked the car door, Jo’s nose pricked at the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle that spilled from Sally’s front garden, taking her back suddenly and powerfully to her youth with a wave of poignant nostalgia that almost stopped her in her tracks. She asked herself again if she was going crazy coming here, and again couldn’t answer. Possibilities lurked in her head.